Pippa and Thomas exchanged a look. So that explained the hideous choice of clothing.
Reggie’s eyes overflowed again. “I’m not a crook,” he said. “I promise. I got in over my head . . . all because I wanted Betsy to say yes—”
“Yeah, we got that,” Thomas said, and sighed. He rubbed his eyes. “All right,” he said. “Get out of here.”
“You—you’re not going to call the police?” Reggie stammered.
Thomas shook his head. Reggie stood up. He took a step forward, as though tempted to embrace Thomas. Thinking better of it, he settled for pumping Thomas’s hand and then Pippa’s. His palm was very wet.
“Thank you,” he gushed. “I won’t forget this. And you won’t have any more trouble from me. I promise.”
Pippa withdrew her hand from his and wiped it carefully on her pajamas. She was tired, suddenly—an exhaustion in her bones and blood and even the roots of her hair.
Pippa and Thomas saw Reggie out of the museum, carefully locking the door behind him. They carefully swept up the glass Reggie had shattered. Miss Fitch would see to the broken window tomorrow. Upstairs, they found Sam waiting for them on the landing.
“Max all right?” Thomas asked.
He shrugged. “She wouldn’t talk to me,” he said. Even in the dark, Pippa could see that he was blushing. “She hauled off straight to bed.”
“She’s always weird,” Pippa said, yawning. But even as they passed into the darkness of the attic, Pippa couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was missing something incredibly important.
Max was already in bed, as Sam had said. She was snoring quietly into her pillow.
“Max?” Pippa whispered. There was no answer. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers to her chin. “Max?” She tried again.
Max only snored a little louder. But even as Pippa drifted off to sleep, the bad feeling stayed with her—and the feeling, too, that Max was only faking.
Thomas woke just before dawn. In his first confused moment, he thought that the rustling he heard was Reggie Anderson come back. But then he realized Reggie would not have sneaked all the way up to the attic. Sitting up, he saw Max moving quietly between the familiar jumble of furniture and beds. She glanced behind her, as though to verify no one was watching, and Thomas shrank back into the shadows. In the moonlight, her face looked white and worried. Then she turned around again and slipped out into the hall.
He climbed out of bed and padded quickly across the carpet to the door, passing only a few feet from Danny, who was snoring loudly in an armchair, where he had fallen asleep after toasting Hugo and Phoebe. Thomas eased open the door with two fingers, praying it wouldn’t creak, and peeked out into the hall. A thin fissure of light spilled out into the hall from the bathroom. Thomas debated whether to knock and ask if everything was all right, or to wait for her in the hall, or to return to bed and question her later.
Then he heard more rustling and Max muttering, “It’s got to be here. . . . It has to be. . . .”
He took a deep breath, approached the bathroom door, and knocked softly.
Instantly, the rustling stopped. “Max?” he said. “It’s Thomas.”
“Go away,” she said fiercely. But instead, he pushed open the door.
Max sprang to her feet, fist clenched, as if she were going to attack him. In a second, Thomas took in everything: her rucksack open on the ground, its contents scattered across the linoleum; Max’s expression of fear; the white half-moons of her knuckles. Then he realized she wasn’t winding up to punch him. She was gripping something in her fist.
Suddenly, Thomas understood.
“Show me,” he said.
For a second, he thought she would refuse. But then her shoulders sagged and she held out her hand and opened her fingers, so he could see the silver lighter in her palm.
The silver lighter with a blue sapphire in its catch.
Thomas stared. “That’s . . . that’s Mr. Anderson’s lighter.” He looked up at Max’s miserable expression. “The one Reggie wanted.”
“I didn’t know it was anything special,” Max said quickly.
Thomas sighed. “You’ll have to give it back,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I can’t get busted for stealing,” Max said. “It was just a game. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was dipping in and out of people’s pockets, to see if anyone would notice—”
“Wait a second.” Thomas suddenly felt very alert. “Slow down. You took the lighter from someone’s pocket? Not from Mr. Anderson’s apartment?”
“I was bored,” she said. “Everyone was gabbing on and on about Potts. . . .” She shrugged.
An electric excitement zipped up Thomas’s spine. Max had lifted Mr. Anderson’s lighter from the pocket of one of the guests at Potts’s memorial. Since Reggie said that Mr. Anderson never went anywhere without his lighter, that could only mean one thing: someone had stolen it from Mr. Anderson.
He took a deep breath. “Max, listen to me carefully. This is important. Whose pocket did you pick?”
To his infinite disappointment, Max shook her head. “He was wearing a dark blue suit. You have to move fast, you know, when you’re snatching, otherwise—”
“Think,” Thomas cut her off. “Do you remember anything about him? Anything at all?”
“I told you,” Max said irritably. “I wasn’t taking notes.”
Thomas massaged the bridge of his nose. There had been hundreds of people at Potts’s memorial, most of them strangers. But had he recognized anyone? When he closed his eyes, all he could see was the glare of a dozen camera flashes. All he could hear was Evans telling him to look this way, look this way . . .
And then it was as if the flash was not in his mind but in his whole body, in his whole mind. He opened his eyes.
Evans.
Max was frowning at him. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Thomas’s heart was going fast. “Please, Max. Try and remember. Did you pick Evans’s pocket?”
Before she could answer, Pippa spoke up from the hall. “What about Evans’s pocket?”
Thomas turned around. Pippa and Sam were standing in the hall. Sam was rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
Thomas snatched the lighter from Max’s hand.
“Max took this from someone yesterday,” Thomas said.
Pippa glared at Max. “I thought I told you—”
Sam gawked. “That’s the lighter Reggie was after.”
“I didn’t mean nothing by it,” Max grumbled.
“Anything!” Pippa said exasperatedly. “You didn’t mean— Oh, just forget it.”
“Listen.” Thomas’s hand was trembling. “I think Evans might be involved. He’s been up to his neck in this case from the very beginning, hasn’t he? He’s the one who fed us that story of the redhead and the car. He’s the one who wrote about the curse of the shrunken head in the first place.”
Pippa blinked. Slowly, an awed expression came over her face. “I saw that lighter once,” she said, in a hushed voice. “I saw it in his pocket, when we went to the office of the Daily Screamer.”
“That was just after Potts was killed,” Max said excitedly.
Pippa stiffened. Her eyes lost their focus. “The green fish . . . ,” she whispered.
“The green what?” Thomas said.
She blinked, and turned to him. “The green fish,” she said excitedly. So he had not misheard.
“What are you talking about, Pip?” Sam said.
Pippa made a noise of impatience. “Remember when we tracked Potts to that awful restaurant, Paulie’s? That was the first day I ever read a mind. I saw what Paulie was thinking. I saw a blurry green fish.” She paused. “Only it wasn’t a fish. It was a shark.”
“So?” Thomas was getting more impatient by the second.
“So?” Pippa practically choked on the word. “Don’t you see? He was thinking of a green shark tattoo, just like the one Evans has on his arm.” Her face split into a
grin. “He said he didn’t remember anything about the man who was eating with Potts just before Potts died. But he must have seen Evans’s tattoo and remembered it without knowing he remembered it. Get it? Evans was there. Evans had dinner with Potts. And then Potts died.”
A chill spread over Thomas, starting in his chest and reaching to the roots of his hair. If they were right—and they had to be right—Evans had killed at least two people. Maybe three. They had only Evans’s word for it that Mrs. Weathersby was alive when he left her, and only later plunged to her death.
Thomas’s stomach turned over. He’d sat in Evans’s office, he’d spoken with Evans, and he’d had no idea.
Max broke the long stretch of silence. “I still don’t get it,” she said, hugging herself. “Did Evans steal the head, too? What’s he going to do with it? And why’d he go bonkers and start killing people?
Thomas took a deep breath. “There’s only one way to find out,” he said.
Pippa, Max, and Sam stared at him.
“How?” Pippa said.
“We ask Evans,” Thomas said.
They went straightaway, after changing in the darkness of the attic out of their pajamas and into street clothes. When they emerged into the brisk air, the sky was just beginning to lighten in the east, like a large blue blanket whose corners had caught flame. Max had always loved the city at this hour, when the buildings were like tall black stakes against the sky, and only a few lights flickered in the windows; when the streets were empty; when the whole city felt like a large, slumbering monster, and she could pass unseen in its shadows.
But now that they were on their way to catch a real-life monster, Max felt different. She imagined that the shadows were full of people waiting to reach out and grab her. The wind felt like an alien touch and lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She was glad that she wasn’t alone. Sam spent the subway ride in silence, chin down, almost as if he were asleep, although Max knew better. Thomas, on the other hand, couldn’t stop moving. He stood up and sat down again. He drummed his fingers on the seat. He jogged his knee. And Pippa stared out the window, her breath fogging the glass.
Max would never have admitted it, but she was even—even—glad for Pippa.
They knew from the newspaper reports of Bill Evans’s accident that he lived on Ludlow Street, between Hester and Canal. Thomas trusted they’d be able to find it, and it turned out they shouldn’t have worried. As soon as they reached the corner of Canal and Ludlow, Evans’s apartment building was easy to spot: bouquets of flowers, get-well cards, and even soggy teddy bears were clustered in front of the gate at number 12.
“Looks like Evans has a fan club,” Sam said.
“Not for long,” Thomas said.
Max’s stomach knotted up. She shoved her hands in her pockets and reassured herself that her knives were still there.
All the windows of the apartment building were dark; it must have been just after six o’clock. Down the street, a man wheeled a fruit cart toward Canal, whistling softly. Soon the city would open its eyes.
Thomas navigated the piles of flowers and gifts and pushed open the gate. He gestured for the others to follow him.
“Are you going to ring?” Pippa whispered as they clustered together at the top of the stoop. To the right of the front door were several doorbells. BILL EVANS was written in block print next to the middle one, apartment 2A.
Thomas shook his head. “No ringing. We want to catch him by surprise.”
“You think he’ll try and run for it?” Max asked.
“We can’t give him the chance. Sam? Will you?” Thomas gestured to the door.
Sam repressed a small sigh and shuffled forward. Max fingered her knives impatiently. Her palms were sweating. Would that affect her ability to throw, if she had to? She thought of Evans’s toothy smile, and all of the stuff he’d written about them in the papers. She’d love to stake him straight through the head.
But she knew she could never really hurt someone, as much as she pretended. That’s why the thought of confronting Evans made her mouth go dry and her palms go wet. People thought she and Pippa and Thomas and Sam were the freaks. But the real freaks were people like Evans—people who could hide their true selves completely, as if all their lives they were wearing Halloween masks.
Sam leaned carefully into the building door. There was a click. He turned back to the others, a look of confusion on his face. “It’s unlocked.”
That made Max even more nervous. It was as if Evans was expecting them. And maybe he was.
Inside, the hall was dark and smelled like fresh paint. A narrow staircase led up to the second floor. Thomas took the lead. Pippa followed him, then Max, then Sam. Max could hear his quiet breathing in the dark and was comforted by it. The stairs squeaked awfully, and at any second she expected Evans to materialize from the darkness. But they reached the landing without incident and stood clustered in front of the door to 2A. There was not a rustle of sound from within. Evans must still be sleeping.
Sam leaned into the door. And once again, it opened at the slightest pressure of his hand, swinging inward with a faint groan. Sam looked bewildered. “This one’s unlocked, too,” he whispered.
Max’s heart was flapping like a salmon in her chest.
Inside Evans’s apartment, all of the curtains were drawn. It was as dark as night, especially after Thomas had eased the door shut behind them. Max had the sudden, frantic urge to run. Surely Evans would hear her heart drumming, and Sam’s rapid breathing, and the faint rustle of Pippa’s jacket.
But one second passed, then two. Nothing happened.
Gradually, Max’s eyes began to adjust, and she saw that it wasn’t completely dark. There was a faint light coming from the next room, as if there, a curtain had been left open a crack. They were standing, she saw, in a small kitchenette area. Directly ahead of them was a wooden table and beyond it, a partially open door.
Thomas was already moving toward it. As Max passed through the doorway, she felt Sam jostle her, but she was too afraid to speak out loud and tell him to watch out. The fear was everywhere now, like being squeezed inside a sweaty palm.
The next room was a study. Against the far wall were two windows. The curtains were parted a little, revealing a view of another apartment building and allowing a little daylight to penetrate. In front of the windows was a large desk, empty except for a silver letter opener. In front of the desk was an armchair.
And in the armchair, his back to them, was Bill Evans.
“Turn around.” Thomas reached out and turned on a lamp. Instantly, the colors of the room were revealed: Evans’s thatch of brown hair, the navy-blue curtains, the scarlet rug.
Evans didn’t move.
“Stop playing games,” Thomas said again. But still, Evans said nothing and remained facing the windows.
Sam lost patience. He crossed the room in two quick strides. “You heard what he said—”
The words died on his lips as he spun the chair around. Pippa screamed.
Evans’s eyes were open, and there was blood on his lips. He wasn’t breathing.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind them.
Max, Pippa, Thomas, and Sam whirled around. A very tall, very thin man was standing in the corner, where he had been concealed from view by the open door. His skin was an unhealthy gray, like the sky just before it rained, and his eyes, behind his glasses, a very pale blue. When he smiled, Max saw his teeth were unusually long and very yellow. He looked vaguely familiar, but Max couldn’t think where she had seen him.
“Hello, my children,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Who—who are you?” Pippa stammered.
“My name”—the man removed his hat with a flourish—“is Professor Rattigan.”
“Professor Rattigan,” Pippa repeated in a whisper. “We—we heard about you on the news.”
“You’re the crazy man who escaped from prison,” Max blurted out.
Professor Rattigan r
eplaced his hat. “Yes and no. I did escape from prison. I am not, however, crazy.”
Max noticed Thomas glance quickly at the telephone on the table. But Professor Rattigan noticed, too.
“No use, Thomas, my boy,” he said cheerfully. “The line’s cut. I took care of that myself.”
“How—how do you know my name?” Thomas’s face was very white.
“Half of New York knows your name.” Professor Rattigan chuckled. “You’re a celebrity! Thanks to our friend Bill Evans over here.” He gestured unconcernedly at Mr. Evans, still staring, unseeing, into the air. Max wished that Sam would turn his armchair around again. She felt at any second like Bill Evans might blink and stand up.
“I’ve enjoyed reading about you very much.” Professor Rattigan moved over to a second armchair, drawn up close to the fireplace, and sat. He peeled off his black gloves, pinching the fingers, removing them one by one. Max was disgusted to see that his fingers were long and very white, like something dead in the water. “Of course, I’ve been waiting to meet you—all of you—for a very long time. Or shall I say—I’ve been waiting to meet you again. You’ve turned out even better than I’d hoped.”
The children exchanged a look. No matter what he said, he was obviously bonkers. Max reached quickly for the knives in her coat pocket, but Professor Rattigan clucked his tongue.
“It’s no use, Mackenzie.” He reached into his overcoat and withdrew all three of her knives. “I took the liberty of removing them from you when you entered the room.”
“But . . .” Max’s mouth fell open. She remembered how she’d felt Sam bump against her. But it must have been Professor Rattigan, fumbling in her coat pockets. She couldn’t believe it. She—Max!—had been pickpocketed. She felt a flare-up of rage. “Those are mine.”
“You’ll get them back.” Rattigan popped open her switchblade and began picking his nails. “If you do as I say. Now, now—” He held up a hand as Max started to protest. “Enough about me. I want to hear about you! How did you figure out that Evans was responsible for stealing the head? That’s why you’re here, right? About the head and all the murders? Poor Potts. Poor Mr. Anderson. And poor Mrs. Weathersby.”
The Shrunken Head Page 19